


It Will Always Be You

by allonsys_girl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, Love at First Sight, M/M, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 20:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5062591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John meet through Mike Stamford, but not in the canon way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Will Always Be You

**Author's Note:**

> Commission for the lovely Anna (daddy-freeman) - thank you for trusting me with your special story. <333

“Where _is_ he?” John mutters hoarsely to himself, leaning back against the wooden window frame behind him and bracing his foot against the brick wall.

He slips his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans for what has to be the hundredth time since leaving campus just a few hours before, and runs his thumb over the smooth glass. No new notifications. Sherlock should have been here thirty minutes ago.

Disappointment sinks cold as a river stone in his stomach. He glances up at the crowded cobblestone street, at the row of shops across. A fortnight before Christmas, and all of Covent Garden is swarming with people, brightly coloured bags dangling, scarves wrapped tight around their throats, laughing and talking. A light snow is falling, sparkling in the mid afternoon sunshine.

John huffs a long cold breath and nibbles at his lower lip. Maybe he just isn’t going to show. _No_. No - Sherlock wouldn’t let him down. He’ll show.

The door next to John opens and the scent of espresso and warm milk, dark chocolate and pastry dough, billows out on a warm rush of air. The couple exiting the coffee shop brush past John, not even noticing him standing there. Hands entwined, their faces tilted toward each other, far too entranced with one another to mind anyone else.

“Happy bastards.” John grumbles, well aware of his own jealousy, then catches the closing door with his palm and kicks it open. Might as well get a coffee if he’s going to be stood up. No reason to freeze his bollocks off in the street any longer.

The girl at the till is pretty, freckles across an elfin nose, long brown hair gathered in a messy bun, huge blue eyes ringed with mascaraed lashes. She grins at John, allows their fingers to touch as she hands him his change. He nods briefly and looks away. _I’m taken_ , he wants to say. Except. He isn’t. Not really. Not yet.

He takes a seat at a corner table, the wood surface roughened by thousands of plates, ringed with multitudes of coffee stains. Before he can take a sip of his coffee, his phone buzzes with a text.

_Running late, so sorry. Got caught by a student after class. Had to get a later train._

A sweet warmth suffuses through him that has nothing to do with the hot mug in his hands. He feels guilty for having doubted Sherlock for even a second. Of course Sherlock’s just running late. Not standing him up. Biting back a huge grin and trying not to look like a totally lovesick fool, he wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans before he replies.

 _No worries, I’m having a latte and a scone. Take your time._  

A pause, and Sherlock responds in his now familiar, clipped style of texting.

_Good. Getting on the tube at Paddington now, going to lose my signal. See you soon._

Sherlock. Bizarre, inexplicable, wickedly funny, _gorgeous_ Sherlock Holmes. John can hardly fathom that they’re actually going to meet, after all these months of texting and skyping. He’s got no idea how he’ll react with Sherlock right here in the flesh, all shimmering green eyes and wild curls, flashing that wicked grin that always sends John’s stomach fluttering. He wants to _touch_ him, smooth down his hair, rub a thumb over one of those _infuriating_ cheekbones.

_So, shit at chemistry, are we?_

That first text from Sherlock had very nearly been the last. It was mortifying enough that a third year medical student needed a tutor for sodding _chemistry_ , of all things, but to have the tutor act like a complete dickhead straight off… John had called Mike Stamford and demanded to know what the hell kind of tutor he had sent him to that starts out by insulting the person they’re supposed to be tutoring.

Mike had laughed, his voice warm and full of affection. _Oh, he’s just like that, John. Always has been. He’s a great bloke, honestly. And brilliant at chemistry. First in his year. Just give him a chance, and I promise he’ll get you through._

John trusted Mike, so he’d gone on and given Sherlock a chance. And Sherlock had been even better than Mike’s word. Though they were sixty miles apart - Sherlock at Oxford and John at medical school at Imperial College, London - Sherlock had guided John through the most difficult term of science classes he’d ever had in his life. They shared emails and Skyped late into the night, and John had made more than a few frantic pre-exam phone calls that made Sherlock laugh. _You’re smart, John. You can do this._ During term, they hadn’t talked about much except chemistry, really, though John looked forward to their study sessions much more than was probably normal. Sherlock gave John a confidence in himself that he’d never had, simply by his presence alone.

When term had ended, John had a sort of vague fear that they wouldn’t have anything to talk about anymore. Or even worse, that Sherlock would stop texting, stop replying, just disappear completely from John’s life. That thought kept him up nights, distracted him when he was trying to study. It _ached_.

But John had woken up bleary eyed and sore-brained the morning after exams, rolled over and immediately grabbed his phone. _My brother is dragging me home for the holidays. I don’t even know why. He has even less patience for my parents than I do._ John had laughed aloud and burrowed under the duvet, relieved that they seemed to just be carrying on as before. He laid in bed texting Sherlock until his body screamed at him that he needed a piss and a long hot shower. _Have to run - talk later?_ In the evening, his phone buzzed with a drunken selfie of Sherlock in a horrid Christmas jumper, leaning against a massive stone fireplace, his tongue stuck in the corner of his mouth, one eye squeezed shut in a crooked wink. _Happy Christmas, John Watson._

After that, they talked about everything. They talked about music and art, about books and science. Sometimes Sherlock would play his violin as John listened, spellbound and barely breathing. They talked about their childhoods, difficult siblings and distant parents. Sherlock made John laugh, harder than he’d ever laughed in his life, at things that shouldn’t even be funny. John made Sherlock laugh too, which always felt like a victory.

John would lay in bed at night, phone pressed against his heart after they’d said goodnight, and stare at the water stains on the ceiling. _Is this what falling in love feels like?_ He didn’t know, he’d never been in love. They didn’t talk about it, this _whatever it was_ between them. But John knew it wasn’t simple friendship. He’d had friends, lots of them, and he’d never felt like this. This was _consuming._

He counted the minutes between texts, and was fairly bursting out his skin by the time they sat down in the evenings for their Skyping. Sherlock brought out something tender and protective in him - he seemed so alone, other than his brother who made him crazy, and John. But he was brilliant, and bizarre, and John found him mesmerising. His friends were sick to death of hearing about what Sherlock said, what Sherlock thought about a band or a film. John couldn’t stop talking about him, couldn’t stop thinking about him.

This distance between them, their class schedules, John’s part time jobs, made it nearly impossible to get together, and it was driving John absolutely round the twist. He wanted to _see_ Sherlock, wanted to make him real.

But spring term ended, and John went off to America for a summer surgical internship at Johns Hopkins. Sherlock was away in France with his family. There was no time to meet before school picked up again.

Fall term had continued the same as last year, until one night, John just blurted it out in the middle of Sherlock verbally eviscerating a particularly inept physics professor. _I want to see you. Can we meet? I’ll come to Oxford, I don’t care. I’ll take a day from class. Please._

Sherlock had stopped and blinked at the screen, his hands templed under his nose. He leaned forward until his face was distorted by the laptop camera. Those intense green eyes narrowed for a moment, and John was suddenly terrified that he’d said the completely wrong thing. Then Sherlock’s whole face transformed, a huge grin wrinkling up the corners of his eyes, rounding his hollow cheeks, making him look about twelve years old. _Yes, John. Yes. Christmas break? I’ll come to London._

And now, nearly sixteen months after that first text, here he sits, dressed in his best fitting jeans and a brand new button down, in an uncomfortable chair in this overheated coffee shop, waiting. Impatiently waiting, his skin feeling stretched thin, his head beginning to throb. Digging his knuckles into his eyes, he opens them to a long shadow falling across the table.

“Hello, John.” That rumbling baritone is even deeper in person.

John closes his eyes before he looks up, giving himself the time to allow this to wash over him, whatever is about to happen. Breathe in, breathe out. He can feel the saliva drying on his lips.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

He’s wearing a black leather coat that fits as though it was tailored just for him, and a purple turtleneck that would be garish on anyone else but looks posh as hell on Sherlock. Those languid curls John loves are mashed under a grey knit hat pulled down over his ears, glittering with quickly melting snowflakes. Sherlock pulls out the chair opposite John and sinks into it, folding his long legs elegantly under the small table.

“Sorry I’m late. I know you’ve been waiting forever.” He pulls his hat off and ruffles his fingers through his hair. He grins and pauses, catching his bottom lip in his teeth, cocking an eyebrow at John. “Worth the wait?”

“Absolutely.” John can’t stop looking at him, at the angles of his cheekbones, the smooth curve of his neck, his pinked up earlobes. He’s the most beautiful thing John’s ever seen.

“So.” Sherlock hunches forward and tucks his hands between his thighs.

“So.”

They’re quiet for just a beat. Sherlock blinks the snow from his long black lashes. John can’t think of a single thing to say. He swallows, wanting to reach out and touch Sherlock, to dissipate this unfamiliar awkwardness that’s sprung up between them.

Sherlock taps the side of John’s mug and stands up. “Well, I could use a warm-up. I’m freezing. Going to get a coffee - you want another latte?”

“Yeah. Um.” John digs in his jacket for his wallet.

“I’ve got it, John.” Sherlock waves a hand at him.

“No, I have cash.” He finds a crumpled five pound note and offers it to Sherlock.

“Honestly. It’s my treat.”

“But…”

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head, crooked grin lighting up his face, and licks his lips. His voice drops. “You can pay me back later.”

“Oh. Um.”

“I’m sure you can think of some way to repay me.” Sherlock winks and spins away, hips wiggling slightly.

And suddenly it feels much more like a date.

Sherlock returns several minutes later with two black paper cups, and sets one in front of John. His smile is soft, welcoming. He shrugs. “Decided to get them takeaway. Just, you know. In case we wanted to take a walk or something.”

“A walk sounds perfect. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“Just let me warm up a little first.” Sherlock slips back into his chair, this time moving it forward enough that their knees bump under the table.

John doesn’t move his leg. “When do you have to get back?”

“Oh, not until I want to.” There’s _promise_ in Sherlock’s voice, and he walks his long fingers across the table, stopping just before they make contact with John’s skin. His knee presses against John’s thigh. “I’ve got all night. If we want it.”

“Good.” John unfurls his hand slightly, palm upward, and his fingers brush against Sherlock’s.

Electricity zings down his spine at this faintest contact, and his gaze snaps up to meet Sherlock’s. Asking permission. Because months of texting doesn’t equal a relationship. Because they’ve never said they’re together. Because Sherlock is gorgeous and brilliant and posh and John’s a short kid from Hounslow whose parents couldn’t afford Oxford. Because John’s never felt so _much_ about anyone, and it feels like his entire future hinges on this moment.

“Yeah?” John hates how unsure his voice sounds, but he’s just so afraid to get this wrong.

“ _Yeah_.” Sherlock doesn’t sound unsure at all. Eyes sparkling, half a smile playing on his full lips, he twirls his wrist gracefully and takes John’s hand in his, palms pressed together.

It’s _ridiculous_. Something out of a bad romance film. But as Sherlock’s hand slowly curves around John’s, he sees it. Their _life_. The images tumble unfettered through John’s mind. Sherlock’s smiling face, inches from his own, pale cheeks flushed with exertion as John sweeps his tangled hair from his eyes. _I love you_ , _god how I love you._ A shaft of lazy summer sunlight cutting a swath across a cluttered kitchen, Sherlock’s curls framing his face like a halo. The dust sifting through the light. A woman’s voice, familiar and comforting. _If you’ll be needing two bedrooms._ John’s arm tight around Sherlock’s waist. _Of course we won’t be needing two._ Sherlock curled on a snowy fire escape, cigarette smoke billowing round his head. _Alright out here, sweetheart? Yes, fine. Just thinking, John._ John’s footsteps pounding down a dark alley. Gunshots. John’s face buried in Sherlock’s throat, tasting salt. _You idiot, don’t you ever - never again. Not without me, you hear me?_ Sherlock’s mouth in his hair, across his cheek. _I won’t, I’m sorry, I won’t._ Two pairs of socked feet resting next to each other on a rickety coffee table, the blue flicker of the television. Sherlock’s head heavy and solid on John’s shoulder. A greying beard in the bathroom mirror. _I like it. It’s...distinguished._ Sherlock’s nose cold against his bare skin. A baby crying in an upstairs bedroom. _No, don’t get up. It’s my go. Just go back to sleep._ Sherlock kneeling on a soft blue carpet, his phone in his hand. A chubby blonde toddler stumbling towards him. _His first steps! John, are you watching? Do you see him?_ The clatter of schoolbags and football cleats. _Dad, can you help me with this homework?_ John’s fingertips tracing the edges of Sherlock’s eyelashes, their bodies curled together under worn blankets. _I miss you. Where have we been lately?_ A bouquet of roses on top of the bureau. _Happy Anniversary, darling. Twenty years and counting. Love you._ Their hands entwined, pinned against sweaty sheets. Sherlock’s sticky body pressed languidly against his back. _John, I can’t move. You’ve paralysed me with sex._ Soft laughter in the grey light of a winter morning. Moving boxes piled in a corner. Reading glasses. A cottage surrounded by lilac bushes. _There are bee hives in the back garden, John. We could rebuild them._ A pair of canvas chairs under an ancient oak tree. A long eared dog asleep on a hearth rug. Sherlock’s eyes twinkling emerald and cerulean in the firelight, his hair silver. John’s hand curled around a cracked coffee mug. _I love you like hell, you know._ Laugh lines crinkling. _I know, John. I always know._

John sucks in a hard breath, head swimming, and grabs at the table with his free hand to anchor himself. “Jesus.”

Sherlock gives John a curious smile, eyes full of mirth. He doesn’t let go of John’s hand. “Everything alright?”

“I just. I just saw.” John shakes his head, lost for a way to explain it without sounding like a complete nutter. He exhales slowly through his nose and squeezes Sherlock’s fingers. “Nevermind. I’ll - I’ll tell you some other time.”

Sherlock blinks at him, but doesn’t press the issue. He tilts his head to the side. “You. You are a _mystery_ , John Watson.”

“Am I?” John tries for lightheartedness, which is no easy feat with the image of their son’s bright blue eyes still lingering in his mind. He clears his throat. “No one’s ever said that about me before.”

“Then they weren’t paying attention.” Sherlock leans forward, his long torso easily spanning the breadth of the small table, until their noses are nearly touching. “Because you. Are. _Fascinating_. John Watson.”

“Yeah?” John manages, on the wisp of air left in his lungs.

“ _Endlessly_.” Sherlock wraps his tongue around the ‘y’, allows just the pink tip to peek between his lips.

John can’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s mouth.

“Can I?” He asks, roughly, gaze still caught in the perfect Cupid’s bow of Sherlock’s upper lip.

“God, yes,” Sherlock whispers, and tips his face up _just that much_.

When their mouths meet, Sherlock’s soft bottom lip nestled between both of John’s, their breath mingling warm between them, it’s like coming home. John can’t even be embarrassed about the soft moan the escapes him as he puts his fingers against the line of Sherlock’s jaw and pulls him closer. Sherlock smiles against John’s mouth, nudges their noses together before he pulls back.

They lock eyes and giggle softly, suddenly aware they’re in a very crowded coffee shop in the middle of the day.

Sherlock’s thumb rubs a circle against John’s wrist. “So. Ready for that walk?”

“Yeah. Where’re we going?”

“Well. Fancy another coffee? I know a great Italian place in Piccadilly. Bit more...um...”

“Romantic?” John murmurs, bringing Sherlock’s wrist to his mouth, pressing not-quite-a-kiss to the delicate skin.

Sherlock nods and scrubs at his hair with his free hand. “Mmm. Romantic. Yes.”

“Sounds perfect. Come on, then.”

They fall into step together crossing Monmouth Street, and as they merge into the mass of bodies on Shaftesbury Avenue, Sherlock slips his arm around John’s waist. John leans into him and sighs, swallowing down an unexpected lump in his throat.

John’s spent his entire life not being sure. Never sure of his parents’ volatile moods, of whether there was money enough to buy food that week. He’s lacked faith in his own talents, in his intelligence. Doubted whether he could make it through med school. Friends have come and gone, he’s never really been able to make close ones that would stick. He’s never had confidence in where he was going in life, or with whom.

But now, Sherlock’s hand at his hip, his head laying warm in the cradle of Sherlock’s shoulder, he finally feels certain.

“Sherlock?” His voice carries on the winter wind, and he turns his face into the buttery leather of Sherlock’s collar. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” Sherlock’s hand finds its way into the back pocket of John’s jeans.

“How long? How long have you -”

Sherlock’s answer is immediate and unwavering. “Since the beginning. Since I saw you for the first time.”

“Me too.” John presses his nose against the underside of Sherlock’s jaw, unaccountably warm in the frigid air.

Sherlock hums happily, his throat vibrating against John’s cheek. “Can I ask you something, John?”

“Yeah.”

“What took us so long?”

John knows Sherlock doesn’t really expect an answer. But he stops anyway, turns fully to Sherlock and wraps both arms around his waist. Sherlock looks down at him with an amused smile, and folds his arms tight against John’s chest.

Heedless of the crowd parting around them, John draws the pad of his thumb gently over Sherlock’s mouth and then stretches up on his toes to press a hard kiss there.

“We’re both idiots.”

“Massive, massive idiots,” Sherlock murmurs, dipping his head down to find John’s mouth again.

They stay there, kissing gently, reverently, until the snow gets heavier and the wind picks up. Then, turning up their collars against the cold, and twining their fingers together once again, they set off. To the coffee shop. To wherever the night - and the rest of their lives - leads them.


End file.
